GIFT GIVING
by Anaglyph
Summary: T/7--Neelix organises Christmas celebrations on Voyager. Seven has trouble choosing a present for a special someone.


**Title:** Gift Giving  
**Author:** Anaglyph  
**Email:** anaglyph2001@yahoo.co.uk  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing:** Torres/Seven  
**Disclaimer:** Paramount own the Trek universe. No copyright infringement is intended. I own the story. This story hints at two women expressing romantic attraction for each other.  
**Summary:** Neelix organises Christmas celebrations on Voyager. Seven has trouble choosing a present for a special someone.

Hurried and un-beta'd to beat the deadline. ;o)

**GIFT GIVING**

For once Voyager is a happy ship: untroubled by mysterious anomalies or marauding aliens; not involved in any sticky Prime Directive situations; they haven't even seen so much as a peep of the Borg for weeks. As for temporal entanglements: none; the timeline is boringly stable. Outside, the white nebula presses on the little ship like a soft quilt; inside, the environmental controls are set so that ship-wide temperature is slightly higher than normal.

Captain Janeway is sitting in her Ready Room, a large mug of coffee in her hand, a small, contented smile on her face. She feels as if she's huddled up next to a roaring fire while the snow falls silently at her window. Her computer screen is blank, paperwork finished; nothing to do now but enjoy the rest of the day. Trust Neelix to make a proper Christmas of it.

On the Bridge, Chakotay sits in the Captain's chair, revelling in the relaxed atmosphere, teasing Harry Kim in his good-natured way at the glimmer of the possibility of the merest hint of a promotion; Kim, for his part, is taking this ribbing with good grace, giving back as good as he gets. Even Tuvok seems a little more laid back than usual: he has refrained from commenting on the Santa hat that Chakotay's wearing for a full one-point-six hours, although his left eyebrow involuntarily spasms whenever he glances in the direction of his grinning, strangely bedecked commanding officer. Of the bridge crew, only Tom Paris appears to be unaffected by the general good cheer infecting the ship; he's had another argument with B'Elanna, but that's hardly new.

In the Mess Hall, Neelix bustles about in an effort to complete his preparations for Christmas dinner. On his head, his chef's hat sits at a precarious angle, its neon red with green and purple trim (the little Talaxian sees no reason to limit himself to the traditional red and white) flashing wildly in the multicoloured lights strung haphazardly around the Mess Hall with little or no attention paid to aesthetic considerations. He is unusually harassed and, for once, is having deeply uncharitable thoughts about one of his respected colleagues. Indeed, the Doctor has rarely been so irritating. Ah, there he is again! Emerging from the kitchen carrying a bowl of assorted sweetmeats, bellowing out a Christmas carol at full volume. He stops briefly to get under Neelix's feet and ask him where he wants the bowl, before knocking over one of the miniature Christmas trees, scattering little glass balls and tinsel in all directions. *Enough!* roars the little Talaxian and proceeds to hustle the intruder from his domain.

Expelled from the Mess Hall, the Doctor shrugs and makes off down the corridor, examining each shiny decoration, each multicoloured ornament and glistening tinsel streamer with child-like glee, his ebullience undiminished. He's having the time of his life.

  
**********

"Damn it, Seven! There's nothing wrong with these gelpacks."

The lanky Borg shifted uncomfortably in the cramped space of the Jeffries Tube. "We should re-route the command processors to bypass this series until we can establish what the problem is."

"I'll tell you what the problem is," Torres began angrily before taking a deep breath and reigning in her temper. "Fine, we'll re-route the command processors."

"We should also remove these gelpacks and have the Doctor examine them for possible infection."

"I never would have thought of that."

Ignoring the engineer's sarcasm, Seven turned her attention back to her tricorder, more to avoid further tension than in the hope of discovering why the apparently healthy gelpack series six-theta-nine was malfunctioning.

Torres' movements were agitated as she began removing the glowing packs of bioneural gel, and when she spoke again her tone was sarcastically polite. "Do you have any other useful suggestions?"

"Yes, I do," began the Borg, not bothering to keep her anger from her voice. She found herself breathing heavily: the incessant carping and irritable exchanges of the afternoon were beginning to take their toll. She could see the fire in the Klingon's eyes, willing her on, wanting, perhaps *needing* the fight. But she controlled herself, brought her unexpectedly raging emotions under control, afraid of what might happen if she didn't, afraid of exposing her vulnerabilities to this tempestuous, tempting Amazon. "I do," she said again, more softly this time. "Tell me what's wrong."

"What?" Torres snapped incredulously. "Nothing!" She turned away and began refitting the panel.

"I estimate that your irritability has been fifty-four percent greater than usual during the past three hours."

"That's ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Seven admitted, "Nevertheless, something is troubling you. The Captain has on several occasions told me that 'talking about it' sometimes helps."

"I don't *want* to talk about it," replied the engineer, the anger beginning to drain from her voice.

"Would I be correct in assuming that Mr Paris has once again damaged you with his thoughtlessness?"

Heaving a sigh, B'Elanna dropped the isolinear spanner and sat back against the Jeffries Tube wall. "You just don't give up, do you?" she muttered sullenly.

"No, I do not."

A momentary flash of amusement crossed her face before she closed her eyes and rested her head against the curving wall behind. Seven felt a powerful urge to reach out, to offer a comforting touch, but she restrained herself. The engineer's normal fire and energy seemed diminished; she looked so small and lonely; drained.

"Lieutenant," prompted Seven gently.

Torres opened her eyes and looked at her wearily. "I cooked a special lunch: Christmas lunch. I know we've got the dinner tonight, but I just wanted to do something special for the two of us. I spent hours on it, nothing replicated... well, apart from some of the basic ingredients... you know what I mean."

"And Lieutenant Paris failed to attend."

"Right."

"A prior engagement on the holodeck, perhaps."

"Got it in one."

"He is unworthy of your love."

B'Elanna looked surprised, suddenly realising that this cool, detached ex-drone wasn't quite as insensitive and unfeeling as she sometimes appeared. "Love... I'm not sure love plays much part in our relationship anymore." She frowned, pondering her words, perhaps facing an unpalatable truth for the first time.

"Then you should terminate the relationship before it becomes anymore damaging," stated Seven decisively, feeling a twinge of guilt as she realised that this advice wasn't given entirely objectively.

B'Elanna grinned, her mood unexpectedly lightened by this situation: the two of them, one-time enemies, squashed into a Jeffries Tube, discussing her failing relationship; Seven of Nine, of all people, offering her advice. "It's never quite that simple."

The willowy blond frowned. "I fail to see why."

She chuckled this time, amused by the woman's earnest naiveté, and wondered if perhaps once she would have seen it as wilful arrogance. "Come on, let's get these repairs finished. I still haven't decided on a present for Chakotay."

"As you wish," replied Seven, suddenly remembering that she had her own present to decide on; a present that was for someone particularly important to her, and one that she was having a great deal of difficulty in choosing.

  
**********

She'd never felt so indecisive about anything before. Rapid weighing up of the choices and a swiftly decided course of action were the norm for her, but not this time. Turning away from the console, Seven began to pace about Cargo Bay Two in agitation. She'd spent almost an hour searching through the ship's database for some suitable offering, paying particular attention to the customs of gift giving in human and Klingon culture, but to no avail. Much of what she learned seemed useless: it was unlikely that the Lieutenant would appreciate a sanctified and ostentatiously mounted Targ heart, even if one was available, and many of the traditional gifts of both cultures appeared to Seven to be... irrelevant.

Taking a break from her pacing, she sat down at the foot of her alcove, feeling a deep frustration at her lack of imagination. Once again, her Borg nature was impeding her, barring her from fully integrating into the social structure of the crew, and on this occasion keeping her from expressing something that had gradually become increasingly important to her. She didn't hear the Cargo Bay doors opening, nor the sound of light footfalls approaching, and so she was somewhat startled from her brooding thoughts when she was suddenly addressed.

"Seven?"

"Naomi," she acknowledged uncomfortably.

Before she could rise from her embarrassing position, the little girl sat down next to her.

"Is anything wrong, Seven?"

The willowy blond hesitated, reluctant as ever to reveal vulnerability, but her young friend's earnest concern overcame her defences. "I am having difficulty in choosing a Christmas gift for Lieutenant Torres. There are less than two hours until the dinner when our gifts are expected to be presented, and I am no closer to deciding on a suitable offering than I was yesterday when I pulled her name out of Neelix's hat." A note of disdain entered her voice as she recalled the peculiar ceremony that the Talaxian had held in the Mess Hall: a tall, garishly coloured hat upended on a table and filled with slips of paper, and on each one a name. She had pulled Lieutenant Torres' name from the hat, and since then had been worrying about what she should give the engineer, worrying that her gift would not please the woman or, worse still, would simply confirm how little she still knew about being human.

"I made a hologram for Neelix of his sister. I used his picture of her for the computer to ext... extrolop..."

"Extrapolate," Seven supplied.

Naomi grinned and muttered the word to herself, trying to commit it to memory. Changing tack suddenly she asked, "You and B'Elanna didn't used to like each other much, did you?"

"No, we did not." Seven's lips twitched slightly in amusement. "The Captain, on one occasion, expressed her concern that we might engage in physical violence."

The little girl giggled. "But you're friends now?"

Seven frowned. "I... don't know. The frequency of our disagreements has diminished considerably, but I don't believe that we are... close enough to be described as friends."

"I heard mom and Neelix talking about you the other night." Naomi grinned mischievously. "I was supposed to be asleep."

Seven shifted uncomfortably, worried about where this conversation was heading, but unable to resist her curiosity. "What did they say?"

"Neelix thinks you like B'Elanna a lot."

Feeling a rising sense of alarm, she looked away. The Talaxian was more perceptive than he first appeared, but that her feelings could be so obvious... how many people might be aware of the secrets of her heart?

"And mom said something about B'Elanna and Tom not being together much longer."

Her head whipped round and she stared at her little friend, but Naomi's face was all wide-eyed innocence.

"I had..." She cleared her throat and began again. "I have heard that their relationship is encountering difficulties."

"Neelix said it was a shame, but there was someone much more suitable for Lieutenant Torres. I don't really know what he meant though."

Seven had the feeling that the little girl knew a great deal more than she was letting on, but her face revealed nothing. "Did they say anything else?" she asked reluctantly.

Naomi shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't really hear anything else, and I fell asleep anyway."

Feeling rather disconcerted, Seven stood and went to the computer station. "I must choose a gift." She was certain that Naomi was quite aware that she was deliberately putting an end to a conversation that disturbed her, but the girl simply stood up with a cheerful "okay".

When her young friend reached the Cargo Bay doors, she turned back. "Seven, why don't you make something for her like I did for Neelix?"

Before she could answer, Naomi had gone, and she was left alone to ponder this suggestion.

  
**********

As the gifts were presented one-by-one, Seven's nervousness grew. Contrary to her expectation, the fact that Lieutenants Torres and Paris were sitting far apart and pointedly avoiding eye contact only served to increase her apprehension. She had no idea whether her present would be acceptable, but more than that, it suddenly seemed as if she was about to expose her deepest feelings to ridicule. She began to regret the fervour that had apparently gripped her during the creation of the gift. She sighed, wishing she'd chosen some safer, more innocuous offering. It was too late now though.

Opposite her, Commander Tuvok removed the last of the wrappings and held up for inspection a small, delicate recreation of an ancient, stone building. His eyebrow rose, not in superiority, not in disdain, but in surprise and appreciation that the gift-giver had managed to restrain his natural tendency to extravagance. "The Temple of Amonak. Thank you, Mr Neelix." He said no more, but nodded respectfully at the Talaxian, causing the little man to beam with pleasure. Seven glanced at B'Elanna, feeling that her own effort was completely inappropriate now.

"Well, Seven," said Janeway kindly, obviously sensing her nervousness, if not the full reasons behind it. "Your turn."

The lanky blond swallowed and reluctantly handed over the small package to the engineer. "Happy Christmas, Lieutenant Torres." The warm smile this elicited would at least be a pleasant memory she could keep from what was shortly bound to become an embarrassing fiasco.

Untying the green bow that artfully held the wrapping paper in place, B'Elanna removed the covering to reveal a palm-sized disc, three centimetres thick. She examined it in puzzlement for a moment before realising what it was, and set it on the table before her. With another smile at Seven, she pressed the control on the side of the disc and sat back to watch.

Slowly, two beams of coloured light formed above the disc, one red the other blue, and began to move towards each other. At the last moment, before they touched, they twisted round each other and began to rise from the disc, and the holographic sculpture began a graceful dance in the air. Never quite touching, the two strands of light formed intricate patterns, intertwining, drawing apart, swelling and changing to form complex, abstract shapes. Almost touching at some moments, separated by a gulf of air at others, the dancing photonic shapes' movements increased in speed until they became a single, ever-changing form that twisted and turned with unearthly grace. Gradually it seemed to some of the watchers that they were no longer watching abstract shapes of light, but two humanoid figures, connected by invisible forces as they performed an intensely private ballet, an expression of unity that they shouldn't really be witness to. The continually evolving forms and rhythms were too beautiful, though, to turn away from. And almost as soon as this impression had formed, the dance was beginning to wind down, the tempo slowing, the patterns becoming simpler, until suddenly there was once again only two beams of coloured light hovering above the disc, one red the other blue, and then they were gone, the dance was over.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Seven was dimly aware of murmurs of appreciation. All her concentration was focused on B'Elanna though. The woman was staring at the inert disc, a look of surprise, even shock on her face. It was obvious to Seven that she knew exactly what the gift had meant, what had gone into it. She felt a horrible sensation in the pit of her stomach and knew that she'd made a terrible mistake. She was about to stand and leave before the moment became anymore humiliating, when B'Elanna looked up at her and mouthed the words "thank you". Did she, after all, understand what the hologram had been intended to convey? Her expression was unreadable to Seven, and she wondered just what the rest of this night would hold for her, for them.

  
**********

The little ship has left the white nebula far behind, but everyone is still in good cheer. It will be time to take down the decorations soon, time to put away frivolities such as Santa hats and tinsel bedecked trees, time soon to get back to the business of the long journey home, but not just yet. And for Seven of Nine and B'Elanna Torres, Boxing Day still holds many delights yet to come.

**THE END**


End file.
